


It Almost Feels Like A Joke

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Emotional Constipation, M/M, Vaguely Smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quick drabble of Peter and Chris' thoughts on each other, and how inconvenient it is that they don't hate one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Almost Feels Like A Joke

       Peter Hale fucks like a man with something to prove, like it's the last thing he'll ever do. Chris supposes he should have expected that; there's something of the demanding, almost boastful urgency in everything the ex-Alpha does, so it makes sense that it should include sex. But underneath the claws and insanity and apparent confidence is a streak of something frantic, something that makes Peter press into every touch, whether it is a caress or a blow. Something behind his maddened eyes that whispers ' _look_ at me, pry me open and _see_ me'. 

       He's a strange mix of savage and perfectionist in bed, rutting and snarling but always careful not to bite too hard, always baring himself readily like he expects this time to be the final time. In the moments when he forgets himself, he clutches at Chris with arms that shake just enough to be noticed, buries his face in the hunter's shoulder and breathes in. He always catches himself before long, bucks up and writhes and clenches around Chris in ways that are distracting enough to make him forget the moments of vulnerability. Peter knows an awful lot of tricks for that, and he uses all of them, makes Chris lose his mind with pleasure just because he can, because he knows full well that when Chris closes his eyes he's picturing his wife, pretending he's not fucking the werewolf his family broke. Peter wishes he could hate the hunter for that; it would make everything simpler. It would certainly make leaving without complaint afterward easier, make going home to an empty shell full of the ghosts of his own family more bearable. His hate could keep him from sitting in the remains of his living room, remembering Laura's tenth birthday and the remote-controlled helicopter he'd gotten her (which she used to dive-bomb everyone for a week much to her and her uncle's amusement), remembering her face when he'd ripped her apart, remembering his lungs filling with smoke as his pregnant sister choked on her last breath in his arms. His hate could give him a purpose. If only he could make himself hate Christopher Argent.

 

       Christopher Argent likes to take his time, likes to enjoy himself and make sure that his partner is doing the same. He is by no means a perfectionist-- he's had his share of tumbles, accidental choking, elbows jabbed into unfortunate places. He simply likes the comfortable feeling of slowly watching Peter come apart underneath him (or on top of him, or next to him, or up against the wall or anywhere really) and knowing that he's the cause of it. He can be brutal, of course, when the situation calls for it or when they've spent a few hours taunting each other, riling one another up. But for the most part, he's attentive-- even tender, though neither of them would ever use that word. He's always fascinated by the shifts in Peter's expression, from the way he bites his lip when he's trying not to make noise to the way his eyes go wide when he comes. Chris always makes sure of that; he may not let Peter top (because he's not sure if knotting is really a thing or just something Kate told him to freak him out but he doesn't want to find out just yet) but he always makes sure that the other man comes, whether it's in his hand or his mouth or untouched, pushed over the edge by nothing but the hunter's relentless grind against his prostate. Peter always looks surprised when Chris takes care of him-- especially if Chris has already climaxed. 

       They don't cuddle, after. There are no soft kisses or gentle words, and most times Peter grabs his clothes and disappears before the afterglow wears off. Chris doesn't say anything, but it annoys him, bothers him that the werewolf apparently has somewhere better to be. He can't say that though, because it would be breaking the apparent understanding that they have. Instead he lets his hand linger on the curve of Peter's spine, rubs his knuckles over the angle of his cheekbones, traces a thumb along the tired shadows under his eyes. He can never bring himself to meet those eyes, not for long anyway, not when they're together like this. He thinks that upsets Peter a little, but the hunter just can't force himself to look so deep into the abyss he helped create, for fear of what he will find at the bottom. He thinks that Peter might hate him, and knows he should hate him back, but when he tries all he can summon is a hollow sense of guilt, which is always immediately followed by the urge to call the other man and invite him over. It would be easier if he hated Peter, because then he might honestly wish his wife was in the empty space in his bed, might imagine Victoria sitting across the breakfast table laughing at his choice of cereal (which she never did), might not feel quite so tempted to ask Peter to stay. If he hated Peter he could simply wait for the werewolf to slip up, to kill, and then put him down, rather than following him from a distance and hoping he doesn't. His hate could make him strong. If only he could make himself hate Peter Hale.


End file.
